


you left me no choice but to stay here forever

by lilibetpride



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, Crowley Submits to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (Good Omens), Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Growing Up, M/M, Mutual Pining, No beta we fall like Crowley, The priest and the footballer AU, Twitter made me do it, it's MY fic and i get to choose the projecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28940430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilibetpride/pseuds/lilibetpride
Summary: Coming home is never easy.Aziraphale Fell, Tadfield's one and only star, has been away from his hometown for too long. Anthony Crowley, Tadfield's resident priest, never left. When their paths cross again after years of separation, they're haunted by the memories of the decisions that stopped them from pursuing their dreams — and each other.
Relationships: Adam from Eden/Eve (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	you left me no choice but to stay here forever

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warnings: mentions of underage drinking and smoking, implied homophobia (starts at "Gabriel isn't smiling anymore." and ends at "Of course.")

Coming home is never easy.

The little village welcomes Aziraphale back with open arms, their pride written in the smiles they throw his way everywhere he goes.

It’s been years since he’s walked these streets, but they still feel as empty as they did back when he was a kid. There’s memories carved into these spaces, into the stone walls he touched while making his way up the hill, towards the tiny church that called him up every Sunday.

He feels the weight of the years settle in with every step he takes. The wind is cold, and it pierces even through his sweater. Behind him, the village is silent. It feels nothing like Manchester, with its constant buzzing, or the pitch, with people chanting and clamouring every goal.

The Church doors are open, but he doesn’t feel welcome. It’s been too long since he’s felt like he belonged anywhere but on the pitch. He feels exposed without his jersey and gloves — without something to help him blend into the background.

He steps in. There’s no one inside — except for the person he’s looking for. Hiding. Just like him.

The confessional looks exactly the same as it always did, if only a bit more worn out. The wood is chipped on the corners, and it creaks under him when he sits down.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, closing his eyes to do the sign of the cross.

_In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen._

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three years since my last confession,” his voice shakes as he hears a loud exhale from the other side of the screen.

Aziraphale waits, but all he gets in response is stunned silence. He pushes through the fear and continues talking.

“I’m afraid I’ve fallen into temptation,” he breathes more than says, holding his hands to keep them from shaking, “I’ve strayed from the path that God laid for me.”

Finally, he opens his eyes. Through the gaps in the screen, he can see him. He’s facing Aziraphale, his deep brown eyes burning.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, “you’re back.”

Aziraphale nods. “It’s been too long.”

“Eight years,” there’s coldness in Crowley’s voice — it feels nothing like him, “you said you were never coming back.”

“You said the same.”

“And here I thought _you_ were the nice one.”

“And yet here we are,” Aziraphale swallows hard, “the priest and the footballer.”

He would’ve never thought they’d end this way. Back when he was young, he used to dream about a quiet life in the village, him and Crowley together. The way it was always meant to be.

Now there’s a wall between them. The screen is mocking him, like it knows the years and their choices have led them to a place where the other doesn’t fit — could _never_ fit.

Aziraphale can’t go back to the idyllic village fantasy, can’t live a life where he isn’t Aziraphale Fell, England’s star goalkeeper, adored by the general public. And Crowley can’t renounce his faith, his place in the Church. Not when they’ve worked hard to get where they are.

Crowley’s voice breaks. “You can’t do this to me.”

“Crowley —“

“ _Father Anthony_ , Aziraphale, do you know what that means?”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t, if you did you wouldn’t — you wouldn’t come back — not after I’ve spent so much time _cleaning_ myself of you.”

“I’m not here to fight.”

“And what are you here for? To mock me? To remind me of how far you’ve gone without — without _me_?”

“Crowley —“

“I can’t do this — Aziraphale, you said it was over.”

Aziraphale raises his hand, overtaken by the need to _touch_ Crowley, to make him understand — Crowley flinches, standing. He gives Aziraphale one last look, the darkness of the confessional drawing shadows across his eyes. He looks as haunted as Aziraphale feels.

The door opens, and Crowley disappears, leaving Aziraphale alone again.

**TEN YEARS AGO**

“It's here.”

Aziraphale jumped. Crowley was quick to grab his arm, catching him before he fell.

“Don’t scare me like that!” he huffs, swatting Crowley’s hand away.

Crowley smiles, clearly amused. “Like what?”

“It’s not funny!”

“C’mon, angel, I came here running —running!— from work, and you pay me with violence?” Aziraphale made a point of rolling his eyes as hard as he could. Crowley pouted. “I brought beer.”

Aziraphale sighed. “You’ll get in trouble.”

“ _We’ll_ get in trouble.”

Crowley’s backpack used to be Aziraphale’s — most of his things were, really. Crowley had a tendency of laughing at Aziraphale’s fashion choices, yet hoarding them as soon as he could. It started with Aziraphale’s umbrella, when he first moved to Tadfield, and it became an integral part of their friendship.

The beige backpack was now full of pins and badges, and it had a particularly nasty hole that Aziraphale was dying to get his hands on — he’d spent the last summers helping his mother sew and knit, and had gotten quite good at it. Crowley pulled two beer bottles out of it, looking immensely proud.

“When you said _beers_ I thought it was — a pack.”

“This is all I could take without Mum noticing.”

“What a bad boy.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, leaving the bottles on the ground, next to the backpack.

“Did you open it?” Aziraphale asked, anxiously wringing his hands.

“Nope,” Crowley said, obnoxiously popping the ‘p’, holding out a letter he got from the backpack, “I want you to read it for me.”

“But —”

“No buts,” Crowley held the letter out, “you’ll give me luck.”

Aziraphale let out a nervous chuckle. Crowley smiled. Aziraphale felt even more nervous.

He took the letter.

It weighed nothing. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that was a good omen or a bad one. He was having trouble swallowing. Crowley looked calm, like he trusted Aziraphale even if he had no control over the contents of it. Aziraphale broke the envelope.

“Wait.”

Aziraphale raised his eyes from where they were staring, focusing on Crowley. He had already taken out a box of cigarettes from his jacket’s pocket. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“Really? Now?”

“I’m nervous!” Crowley got two cigarettes from the box, passing one to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale got a lighter out of his jacket to first light Crowley’s cigarette, then his own. It was a ritual. They both knew smoking was wrong, and bad, but it did little to stop them from hiding in their spot near the lake, under the old willow tree. And even after a year, Crowley still refused to light his own fire, trusting Aziraphale to do it for them both.

This time, Crowley’s smile did look nervous. “Thanks, angel.”

Aziraphale took a long drag, trying to steady his heart. He was, quite literally, holding his best friend’s future in his hand.

RADA’s logo welcomed him as soon as he got the letter out of the envelope. It looked more fancy than anything he’d ever read. He cleared his throat. Crowley closed his eyes.

“Dear Anthony,” he read, heart on his throat, “thank you for coming to audition for us in London. The audition panel enjoyed it very much.”

Crowley groaned. Aziraphale didn’t know if it was because of the use of his first name, or the clear stereotypical answer, but he continued nevertheless.

“We have now had time to give careful consideration to your application and regret that, on this occasion, we are unable to offer you —”

“SHIT.”

Aziraphale almost jumped again. Crowley kicked the willow tree with a string of ‘shit shit shit shit shit’. Aziraphale gripped the letter even tighter than before.

“Crowley —”

“I was so sure, angel, so fucking sure they liked it,” Crowley kicked the tree again, for good measure, “what a fucking joke.”

Aziraphale stepped closer. “Don’t say that.”

Crowley dropped the cig, stepping on it with too much force. “What the hell am I supposed to say, then?”

“It’s your first try,” Aziraphale held the letter up, “you can still try again next year.”

“And again, and again, and again, and fucking ‘gain.”

“That’s not —“

“And meanwhile what? I just live in this nightmare village for years on end, serving coffee to assholes?”

“This is our home.”

“London could’ve been our home!” Crowley shouted, taking the letter and crumpling it.

Aziraphale tried to swallow against the lump on his throat. “I-I wasn’t going to London.”

Crowley frowned, his pacing stopping abruptly. “What?”

Aziraphale knew that face — the pinched eyebrows and pursed lips. Crowley was on the verge of lashing out. He tried to keep calm.

“I’m staying in Tadfield.”

“But-but what about the scholarship? Getting a place in Soho together.”

“Those were just dreams, Crowley.”

Crowley scoffed. “Like getting into RADA.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Oh, really?”

“You’re so smart, and you’re a great actor — I don’t doubt you’ll get in, they’d be lucky to have you, but…”

He seemed to soften at his hesitation, turning his whole body so he was facing Aziraphale.

“But what?”

“I sent the application,” Aziraphale sighed, “I didn’t get in, either.”

Crowley’s face melted, all traces of anger gone. “Oh, angel…”

“It’s alright, Crowley, I never — I knew I wasn’t getting it. I’m not smart like you.”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley shook his head, “you said you’d wait until next year to apply.”

“I-I thought I had a chance, but I didn’t want to give you hope.”

“Give _me_ hope? I should’ve been the one to — angel, we’re together in this, aren’t we?”

Aziraphale wanted to believe that.

He flicked the ashes off the cigarette, sighing. He felt older than his years. “Without the scholarship… there’s nothing for me in London, is there?”

Crowley stayed silent. When he spoke, he did it carefully. “There’s always… football.”

Aziraphale let out a laugh. “Football.”

“You’ve been playing it since you can walk, and nobody stops a ball like you — you’ve given this town their only wins in years.”

“Nobody scores goals,” Aziraphale remarked.

“ _And_ nobody gets past you.”

Aziraphale sighed. “You sound like my dad.”

“Ugh, please don’t say that.”

“He’s been asking me to go try out for years.”

“Angel, this isn’t going to happen _ever_ again, so listen to me,” Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, sounding pained to even have to say it, “your dad’s right.”

“I’ll let him know.”

“Bastard, don’t you _dare._ ”

Aziraphale laughed, and at last that put a smile on Crowley.

“At least we’re together,” Crowley took the letter from him, “I wouldn’t want to be in RADA if I didn’t have you to tell me how good Hamlet is.”

“It’s one of the greatest plays ever made!”

“That’s because you don’t know how to value a well-done comedy, that’s theatre!” Crowley takes a long drag, “I bet those posh arseholes don’t even know what good theatre is, I mean — they probably like the same ones as you.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Rude.”

“It’s true! They must looove Shakespeare’s gloomy ones!” Crowley crumples the letter. “Maybe that’s why they didn’t like me.”

“You say that like you have a big ‘I hate Hamlet’ tattooed in your forehead — please don’t get ideas.”

Aziraphale knew Crowley didn’t _hate_ Hamlet. It was just something he did — pick on something Aziraphale liked to get him to explain why he liked it.

“You’ll audition again next year,” Aziraphale said, “and I’ll try to get a scholarship one more time.”

Hope flickered through Crowley’s eyes.

“Didn’t you say they were dreams?”

“Well — dreams come true, don’t they? We’ll just have to do something in the meantime.”

Crowley takes one last drag. He offers it back to Aziraphale, but he doesn’t feel like smoking anymore. The cigarette joins the other one in the ground.

“Do you think I’ll get in?” Crowley asks after a few minutes of silence.

Aziraphale wants to laugh — but he doesn’t. Not when Crowley is crossing his arms, turning his face to the side. He knows what that means — he’s trying very hard not to let Aziraphale know he’s worried.

“Of course,” Aziraphale answers, and his voice sounds soft even in his own ears, “you’re great at acting, Crowley, you love it.”

“Maybe it’s not enough to love it… maybe I’m just not meant to be an actor.”

“No, Crowley, listen to me.”

Crowley sighs, lifting his eyes to look at him. Aziraphale takes a deep breath, taking a page from Crowley’s book and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“You are… amazing, the — the best per-actor I know,” he suddenly feels dizzy, like he’s in the brink of something, “fuck RADA.”

Crowley blinks. “What?”

“F-Fuck RADA! Fuck them!”

“Did I die? Am I in Heaven?”

“They’re bastards! All of them!” Aziraphale tries to tell Crowley over the sound of his laughter, “They don’t deserve you!”

“Angel!”

Aziraphale tries to keep his serious-face on, which proves to be incredibly difficult with Crowley almost leaning into his shoulder, his laughter bordering on wheezes.

“I can’t believe you!”

Crowley raises his head, his whole body trembling. With this new angle, Aziraphale’s a breath away from Crowley’s nose.

Slightly breathless with the sudden closeness, Aziraphale’s words stumble out of him in a rush.

“Believe me.”

Crowley’s laughter dies as his eyes flicker to Aziraphale’s face. His cheeks are flushed, and Aziraphale can smell the cigarette mixed with the coffee Crowley probably stole from Tracy’s before coming.

They stare at each other. Aziraphale’s hands ache to grab Crowley, to get closer. That, in itself, it’s not something new — they are both pretty tactile people, and they’ve been close since the beginning of their friendship — but it’s never felt like _this._ Like Aziraphale is just a breath away from getting his heart to stop beating like it’s about to burst out of his chest.

“Angel,” Crowley mutters, in a way that sounds more like a sigh than an actual word.

He can’t help it. There’s no universe in which he can stop himself from looking down at Crowley’s lips as they form his name.

“Aziraphale, I…”

And then, a voice comes from deep within the forest.

“Aziraphale?”

Crowley jumps backwards, his feet catching on the willow’s roots, almost sending him flying — but Aziraphale holds him by the wrist, stopping Crowley from falling.

The voice continues calling him. Aziraphale feels sick looking at Crowley’s panicked face. He can’t believe he almost — almost —

“Coming!” he manages to shout, pulling Crowley back on his feet.

Crowley opens his mouth, but Aziraphale turns before he can say anything.

_No no no no no no no._

His legs shake as he makes his way over to where Adam is standing, his back turned, only a few steps away from the willow. He tries to steady his breathing before talking again, holding his hands together to stop them from trembling.

“Hello, Adam.”

“Aziraphale! There you are!” Adam turned to look at him, looking worried.

Aziraphale tries to smile. God, he was being obvious, wasn’t he? “Here I am.”

“Your dad asked me to find you, someone’s looking for you.”

“Looking for him?”

Aziraphale jumped at Crowley’s sudden closeness. He didn’t even hear him following. Adam raised an eyebrow.

“Some Gabriel Archer.”

He can feel Crowley staring from behind. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale answered, shrugging, “did he look angry?”

“The opposite, actually,” Adam shivered, “he looked happy.”

“Maybe he won the lottery,” Crowley said.

“Please,” Aziraphale scoffed, “Dad hates gambling.”

“Of course he does.”

“Well — I should, uhm, get going, then.”

Adam sends Crowley a questioning look, like Aziraphale wasn’t looking at him too. “Are you okay, Az? You sound a bit sick.”

Aziraphale forces a laugh. “Absolutely tickety boo, Adam!”

“Tickety boo,” Crowley repeats behind him, his voice strained.

He walks past him, turning to wave. “See you!”

He definitely didn’t look at Crowley before leaving. Not at all. Not even a tiny bit.

**FRIDAY**

“We’re all very happy to see you back in Tadfield, love.”

Aziraphale smiled. He knew of at least one person who wasn’t happy at all.

“Happy to be here.”

Tracy shook her head. “You always loved it here, I was so shocked when you decided to leave for London — we always thought you would be the one to stay…”

“And Crowley the one to go?”

“Exactly,” Tracy sighed, “he always had big dreams. I remember —“

“The past’s the past,” Aziraphale cuts, desperate to change the direction of the conversation, “why don’t we talk about the present? Like how you’ve been doing. I was… surprised to hear about your divorce.”

“You might be the only person to be surprised by it, dear,” she chuckles, stirring her tea, “but you know how it is — we still share ownership of the café, and he lives in the apartment next door since Crowley moved out, so the divorce is only on paper.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, young man! You know as well as I do that Mr Shadwell is like a black hole.”

“Gas?”

Tracy looked unimpressed by his joke. “He sucks you in, constantly, I don’t know what he’d do without me.”

“Probably die of sugar overdose.”

Tracy pointed her spoon at him. “Don’t you dare tell him.”

Aziraphale raised his hands in surrender, smiling.

The café was quiet, like everything in Tadfield. It stayed exactly the same as before, unchanged almost completely. The only thing he noticed as different was the sign on the door that clearly had recently been painted, even if the pink and orange swirls of The Bandstand were still the same as before.

There was a spot near the backdoor, tucked in a corner. Most of Tracy’s clients stayed away from it — partly because the table had been broken since the dawn of time, and it made it move whenever one tried to put their weight on it; partly because the window next to it was also broken, meaning it didn’t close all the way, so the wind was constantly blowing the napkins away.

But mostly because it was Aziraphale and Crowley’s spot.

Quite literally, Crowley had once carved their names onto it, and they spent most of their time after school in it, chatting the day away. When they grew up, Crowley started working in the café, and very pointedly put up a sign that said ‘Reserved’ with a tiny angel drawn on the corner. Aziraphale sat there, reading, drinking tea after football practice, talking to Crowley whenever he was free — which was most of the time.

The sign was still there when Aziraphale stepped into the café, Tracy making him sit on the exact same spot his whole life crumpled years ago. She probably thought it was therapeutic or something.

“Nobody sits here anymore,” Tracy says. She always read Aziraphale like a book.

Aziraphale tries his hardest not to look as shaken as he feels on the inside. “Nobody?”

Tracy shakes her head. “Not since you left.”

The guilt feels like burning. He feels haunted by the memory of Crowley in front of him, long hair tumbling over his shoulders every time he shook with laughter. He can’t even imagine what Crowley feels, _living_ in the same place as the memories.

The bell rings, laughter filling the place as a group of kids enter the shop.

“Madame Tracy!” one of them says, waving, “Can Dog come in?”

“No dogs allowed!” Tracy sighs, standing up and giving Aziraphale an apologetic look. “I’ve told you before, Adam, they make a mess.”

“But Dog’s good!”

“I don’t doubt it, dear, but no means no.”

The kid, Adam, pouts. The girl next to him sees Aziraphale, her eyes widening. Aziraphale waves, praying to God —

“Mr. Fell!” the girl beams.

The other three boys turn to look at him at the same time.

Aziraphale manages a smile. “That’s me.”

“Kids —“ Tracy starts, but they’ve already made their way to the back, standing next to the table.

“I’m a big fan!”

“How did you stop Messi from making a goal?”

“Will England ever win a World Cup?”

“Are there bears in Manchester?”

“Brian, why would there be bears in Manchester?”

“It’s cold!”

“Kids, leave Mr. Fell alone.”

They all whipped their heads, looking at the woman standing behind them. Aziraphale smiled, relieved.

“Hello, Eve.”

Eve smiles back. She looks happier than Aziraphale has ever seen her.

“Now, say bye to Mr. Fell, I’m sure he’ll be happy to answer all your questions later.”

Adam pouts, but relents under Eve’s stern gaze.

“Bye, Mr. Fell.”

All the other kids follow him, waving goodbye and disappearing. Eve chuckles, sitting in front of Aziraphale.

“Sorry about that.”

Aziraphale shrugs. “It’s just how kids are.”

It’s not that he doesn’t like kids — or at least, the concept of them. His job would be a lot harder if he couldn’t stand them and their incessant questions. It’s just that he was never _good_ with them. Not even when he was an actual kid.

“Anyways,” Eve’s happiness is contagious, “I can’t believe you came.”

“It’s your wedding, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

It feels — _odd_ , the way most of the people he talked to acted surprised about him coming back. It’d been years, yes, but it still was — it still was the place he’d been born in.

“And I’m so happy, Az, really — Adam and I… well, you know.”

Aziraphale takes Eve’s hands in his, smiling. “I know.”

It sits heavy between them, this _thing_ they know happened. This _past_ — shared and buried long ago.

“I never thought we’d come back,” Eve says, sighing, “I thought Tadfield was off limits.”

“It was our home, wasn’t it?”

Eve looks out of the window. Outside, Adam and his friends run down the street, towards the forest. A dog barks happily.

“How are the kids?” Aziraphale asks.

“Big,” she smiles again, lighting up, “I’m dreading the day they become full-on teenagers.”

“Hey, we were teenagers once.”

“Please, you were always an old victorian man trapped inside a child’s body.”

Aziraphale can’t say anything against that, so he just laughs. He missed her, missed the way conversations with her were always so easy and comfortable.

He misses having friends who know him. His friends in Manchester are nice — nice in a way that means having a night out to drink beers so they don’t think he’s a hermit. Not nice in the laugh until you cry way, not nice in the ‘I saw this and thought of you’ way.

He doesn’t have anyone like that in his life, not anymore.

“You look very calm,” Aziraphale noted, “your wedding is in two days.”

Eve laughed. “Az, please, I gave birth to _twins,_ nothing makes me nervous anymore.”

“You say that now, but I’m pretty sure you will be shaking as you walk down the aisle.”

Eve launches into a full-length description of her dress. Aziraphale doesn’t know enough about dresses, much less _wedding_ ones, to understand what she’s talking about, but he feels comfortable leaving the conversation to her.

“— and of course, there’s the bouquet! I don’t know what it looks like because Cain had the wonderful idea of picking the flowers with Abel —“

“Really?”

“Oh, yes! He’s the only one that picked up my green thumb, I’m afraid, Abel can’t grow a cactus to save his life.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “That’s ironic.”

Eve rolls her eyes. “God, you sound just like Crowley!”

“Well,” Aziraphale does his best to ignore the way his heart drops, “it is kind of a well-known piece of trivia.”

“Yes, well-known to you two, because you never stop thinking of Bible references!”

Aziraphale disagrees. Anyone knows that God chose Abel’s flock over Cain’s crops — even if it wasn’t explicitly stated in the Bible that Cain killed his brother because of it.

“Am I really having a talk down about my love for the Bible when you named your children _Cain and Abel_ because you thought it was funny that your boyfriend was named _Adam?_ ”

“Oh, you have to admit it was a stroke of genius!”

“You do know how that part of the Bible ends, right?”

“Rest assured that I’ve been teaching my children not to kill each other, I’m an exemplary mother.”

“I can see that.”

Eve looks around. There’s nobody but Tracy, who’s chatting on the phone like the world’s ending tomorrow. Aziraphale leans closer to Eve, just in case. She looks eerily serious.

“I have something to tell you,” she says, lowering her voice.

“You’re not questioning the wedding, are you?”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m just checking.”

Eve rolls her eyes, again, and tightens her grip on Aziraphale’s hands.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, her smile so wide it seems to light up the whole of Tadfield, “Adam and I are going to have another baby!”

“You’re kidding.”

“Az! I’m serious!”

“Oh my God!”

Eve throws back her head and laughs. Aziraphale can’t help it, and laughs with her.

“I can’t believe it! Does Adam know?”

“What kind of ques— of course Adam knows! He’s so happy I think he might just tell everyone I’m pregnant instead of saying his vows.”

“If he doesn’t, then I will!”

Eve laughs even harder.

Aziraphale smiles. “I’m so happy for you, Eve.”

“Oh, Az, Adam and I have been trying for so long — I almost can’t believe it’s real!”

“Look at you, with twins and expecting again, getting married to the love of your life, who would’ve thought?”

“Well, I seem to remember two boys plotting behind our backs to get us together.”

Aziraphale remembers too. Crowley had convinced him, as he always did, that Adam and Eve were destined to be together — they’d liked each other, since the beginning, and as the years passed they had become more and more oblivious. It was just a little push, really,

Well, _that_ was a little push — but he wasn’t touching the other _thing_ they did with a ten-foot pole.

“And talking about plotting…”

“Oh, no.”

“You don’t even know what I’m about to say!”

“Do I want to know?”

“You’re gonna like it!”

“Hm.”

“Seriously!”

“Then tell me!”

Eve’s eyes twinkle. Aziraphale missed that look so much, he feels weirdly emotional. If he focuses on that, he can forget the look on her face _that_ night.

“Az, you and Crowley were my guardian angels —“

“Eve…”

“No buts! You were, really, and even if I live for a thousand years there won’t be enough days to tell you how grateful I am,” Eve shakes her head, “Adam and I talked about it, and we want you two to be the godparents of this one.”

Aziraphale stares.

And stares.

Eve snaps her fingers.

“Earth to Az.”

Aziraphale blinks. “I’m… I… Wow.”

Eve snorts. “There’s no need to act so surprised, you two deserved it the first time.”

“I’m sorry —“

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry for not being there, Aziraphale Zacharias Fell, or I will kick you out of this town.”

“Still,” Aziraphale chuckles, “I’m not sure that’s possible, I mean, the Church —“

“Please, we both know Crowley’s finding loopholes as we speak to make it possible, he’ll probably go to the Pope to make a case for why you two are the best suited for this sacred role,” Eve rolls her eyes, “he already tried to talk me out of it, and it didn’t work, so now he’s all for it.”

Aziraphale shifts in his seat. “He did?”

Eve sends him a look of disbelief. “Az, c’mon, he was worried sick about what the press would do if they found out about you being a godfather with _another man._ ”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh,_ but I told him that I don’t give a damn about the press and neither should you two — I’ll burn the Daily Mail down if they dare say something bad about you.”

“Eve!”

“What? They’re the worst thing to come out of this country.”

Aziraphale agrees with her, of course, but his mind is busy fighting his heart over this piece of information — so foreign but so incredibly familiar at the same time. His mind wants to be surprised but his heart knows the deep warmth of Crowley’s care is something that’s been set in stone, unmovable and untouchable, a piece of him that no fight can erase.

Eve’s face softens. “I’m sure nobody in Tadfield will tell the press.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’m not worried about that, my dear, it’s just — a lot to take in on my first day back.”

If she doesn’t believe him, she makes a point not to show it, instead taking the conversation into another direction. “You won’t believe the amount of changed Tadfield’s gone through since you were gone.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Do tell.”

**TWENTY YEARS AGO**

_Tap tap tap._

There was only one day Aziraphale was allowed to walk back home from school. On Fridays, his dad worked and his mum hosted Tadfield’s one and only book club.

He loved Fridays.

Fridays meant walking alone, which meant more time to say hello to all of Mrs. Whitly’s cats — his mum didn’t like cats, and she was always in a hurry to get back home. It also meant that his mum’s friends would bring biscuits, and he’d be allowed to sit and listen to them while eating as much as he wanted. His dad also got home late from work, so he was the ‘man of the house’ in his mum’s words.

But this Friday, he was going home with his head low, his nervousness bubbling to the surface. He didn’t want to tell his mum what happened, what he’d done. She’d be disappointed in him.

_Tap tap tap._

Aziraphale turned around, gripping his backpack. The sound came from a boy his age, tapping on the walls as he walked behind him.

Aziraphale frowned. “Are you following me?”

The boy was shorter than him, red hair sticking out in every direction. He had pieces of grass and sticks in it. Aziraphale’s mum would cry if she looked at him, probably.

He blinked once, then twice — brown eyes that reminded Aziraphale of his favourite milk chocolate. Then, he smiled.

“Maybe I am,” he said, not moving from the spot Aziraphale caught him on.

Aziraphale opened his mouth, then closed it. He supposed he had a good reason for following Aziraphale. “Are you the new neighbour?”

“Yup,” he said, popping the ‘p’, “‘m not following you, my mum and I live the same way.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale felt silly for thinking he was being followed, “you can walk with me, then.”

The boy shrugged. “Alright.”

He closed the distance with a few steps. They started walking together.

“I saw you in school today,” the boy said after a few seconds of silence, “you had a knight.”

Aziraphale gripped his backpack tighter.

“It had a sword,” the boy continued, “it looked cool, d’you have it here?”

“I-I gave it away,” Aziraphale mumbled, looking the other way.

“You what?”

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale turned to the boy, his face burning. “Eve had a fight with her friend and she was so close to crying, I just — gave it to her.”

The boy’s eyes were wide, his smile growing.

“I hope my mum doesn't get too cross,” Aziraphale’s hands were wringing in front of him, “it was a birthday gift— what if it was wrong?”

“I don’t think it was the wrong thing,” the boy shrugged again, “that sounds like something an angel would do.”

Aziraphale laughs, smiling for the first time since he gave his toy away.

“Thank you, er-”

The boy held out his hand. “Crowley.”

Aziraphale shook it, nodding. “Aziraphale.”

“That’s a weird name,” Crowley said, his brows furrowing, “Aziraphael.”

“Aziraphale,” he corrected, “Crowley’s weird too — sorry, that’s rude.”

“Nah, it’s my surname, only Mum calls me by my name.”

“And what is it?”

Aziraphale didn’t know what smirking was, yet, but if he knew, that’d be the way he’d describe Crowley’s smile. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“But tomorrow’s Saturday, we don’t have school.”

“Then we’ll have to hang out.”

That was new. Nobody hung out with Aziraphale besides his mum and dad, and sometimes Adam, but that was because their parents were friends. “I-I guess.”

“Great,” Crowley smiled.

_Tap tap tap._

Rain started falling. They were still streets away from home, their conversation slowing them down. Crowley frowned, holding out a hand to catch the raindrops.

Aziraphale was quick to get his umbrella from the backpack. His mum had told him it was going to rain, and he always liked to be prepared. If he was lucky, it’d be still raining tomorrow, and he would show Crowley his new boots.

Crowley’s eyes widened when Aziraphale held the umbrella out, covering him from the rain.

“You’ll get wet,” he said. Aziraphale shrugged.

“I like rain.”

“Still,” Crowley got closer, “if you get sick we can’t hang out tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

Crowley bumped shoulders with him, meaning they were both covered by the umbrella.

It was nice, Aziraphale decided, as Crowley listened attentively to the names of the families that lived in Hogback Lane. It was nice to have a friend.

**FRIDAY**

“Gabriel?”

“Hello, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale held back a sigh, sitting on the edge of his bed. “I wasn’t expecting a call so late.”

“No rest for the wicked,” he could picture Gabriel’s smile, even if he probably didn’t understand what the saying _meant,_ “I’m actually in New York right now, but there’s been a slight change of plans.”

“Hm?”

“Yes, well, remember how you needed to be back home by Friday?”

Aziraphale flinched. He really, _really_ disliked the way Gabriel used the word _home._

“I do.”

“Manchester called, they need you to be signed by Monday.”

“What?”

“Sorry to be cutting your vacation short, but at least you’ll be able to be at your friend’s wedding! Everything has a bright side!”

“But I-“

“I have to go now, I’ll send you the details later — take care!”

Aziraphale stared at the phone. He took a deep breath.

He really didn’t like it when plans changed. He never did. He liked things to be under control. Of course that being a goalkeeper meant that he had to be quick on his feet, adapt to change faster than the other players, but that didn’t mean he _enjoyed_ when that specific part of the job happened outside of it. Life was easier on the pitch.

He left the phone on the bed, walking the few steps that separated the bed from the window and opening it. The wind was cold, as it usually was. Ever since he was little, Summer in Tadfield meant hot days and cold nights. He was tempted to put on a sweater, but he felt glued to the spot.

Quiet. It was a Summer’s Friday night and Tadfield was as quiet as a cemetery. He missed it so much.

From his room in Tadfield’s one and only hotel, Aziraphale can see the outline of the church. There’s a house a few steps from it, where the old priest used to live. Crowley took him there once, when the priest was out of town, because he was sure it was haunted.

It wasn’t, of course, but the priest had a nice garden. When he came back, Crowley went to talk to him, to ask if he needed help. He spent every Saturday morning tending to it, while Aziraphale was busy training and playing. Aziraphale had the opposite of a green thumb — everything he touched died within days, so whenever he went to find Crowley, he sat on a bench and watched how he worked the earth, chatting with the priest.

Once, years ago, he asked Adam to lend him his bike, and rode all the way to the nearest village. That birthday, he gave Crowley a book on the meanings of flowers. He always asked Father Damien about the meaning of the things he grew in the garden, and he rarely had an answer. And, as much as Crowley joked that he didn’t enjoy reading, Aziraphale knew he finished the book in one sitting, eager and curious as always.

In his house, Aziraphale had only managed to make daisies grow. They sat on his window, like a constant reminder of what he left behind.

A light turns on in the little house, a stark contrast with the darkness his eyes grew accustomed to.

He’s too far away to actually see what happens in that window, but he knows Crowley well enough. As much as he enjoyed sleep, he could never go a night without waking up. Aziraphale suffered from insomnia since he could remember, and his mum used to say hot cocoa was the key to a good night’s sleep. He told Crowley, as he did with most things, and he started making cups of it in the middle of the night.

Crowley never told Aziraphale what his nightmares were about, but he admitted that the cocoa helped him sleep, even if he wasn’t particularly fond of sweet food like Aziraphale was.

Even after all those years, Aziraphale hoped Crowley thought of him before going back to sleep.

The light in the window turned off. Aziraphale decided to do the same and see if he could sleep even a few hours.

(He couldn’t.)

**TEN YEARS AGO**

“You’re leaving.”

Gabriel Archer had come all the way from London, a suitcase and an impeccable gray suit, his American accent a clear contrast between the practiced Queen’s English of his mother and his father’s hard rolling ‘r’s. He was in search of new talents to represent, and found out that Nottingham Forest had their sights on a young goalkeeper from Tadfield, after scouts discovered him in a friendly amateur match. He took the first taxi available and came with an offer, much to Aziraphale’s surprise.

That night, after Mr. Archer left, his father had sat the family down and they all agreed that this opportunity was too good to pass. A miracle, in his mum’s words. And it felt too much like a sign from above for Aziraphale to say no to a future served to him after talking about it with Crowley.

Aziraphale stares at his mug. “I am.”

“When?”

“In a month,” Aziraphale takes a biscuit, “Mum and Dad are gone this weekend to find a house.”

“Wait, they are — they are going with you?”

“That’s what Dad said.”

“No.”

Aziraphale, finally, raises his head. Crowley has his glasses on, but Aziraphale can see the determination in his eyes based on the way his jaw trembles.

“We said we were leaving this town together, didn’t we?”

Aziraphale nods.

“Then I’m going with you.”

It makes Aziraphale shiver, the way Crowley says it. Like not even God could change his certainty on the fact that he has to follow Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale can’t control how his voice shakes, “what are you talking about?”

“It’s just a change of plans,” Crowley smiles, “maybe Nottingham is not London, but it’s a step in the right direction.”

“It is?”

“Yeah, look,” Crowley starts moving his hands excitedly, “I’ve been saving, y’know, for London, but Nottingham’s probably waay cheaper, and that means we can move and be okay until I find a job and you find your footing in football.”

“Forest is not really _in_ Nottingham, there’s a river…” Crowley raises an eyebrow, Aziraphale sighs, “yes, well, the thing is, I’d have to convince Dad.”

“C’mon, angel, you'll be eighteen in — what? Less than six months? He can’t continue to boss you around!”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Crowley’s excited expression falls, turning into something undeniably softer.

“Angel,” he sighs, “I just — I don’t wanna lose my… my best friend.”

“I know, Crowley,” Aziraphale manages a tiny smile, “I don’t want to lose you neither.”

Crowley holds out his hand. “Will you ask your Dad?”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Then his hand. Then Crowley again. He makes a decision.

“I can ask him after he comes back.”

Crowley shrugs. “Fine by me, gives us more time to plan it out.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. He shakes Crowley’s hand. Crowley beams.

“Nottingham Forest, get ready, the boys are coming to town.”

“It’s actually West Bridgford.”

Instead of answering, Crowley takes a sandwich from Aziraphale’s plate and pops it into his mouth. Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

“You’re a fiend.”

Crowley shakes with laughter. Aziraphale can’t help but smile.

**SATURDAY**

The old willow tree looks exactly the same.

Crowley used to joke that it would outlive them both, and tell stories of them to the younger trees.

He remembers the first time Crowley brought him here. It was summer, a few years after they met. Aziraphale’s mum had granted him permission to play outside of their street for the first time ever, and Crowley took his bike and rode until he found the perfect hiding spot.

Hogback Wood has a lot of hidden places, making it a particularly popular spot for handsy teenagers. God knows he stumbled upon plenty of them while walking through it. Crowley loved to set up inconvenient traps to have a laugh.

Aziraphale sits in the same spot he used to. It’s comforting to think that, no matter how old he gets, the woods and Tadfield remain exactly the same.

The daisies are blooming. He picks up one, staring at it like it has the answers to a question he can’t even bring himself to think about.

It’s been too long since he’s been left alone like this. Life as a footballer is hectic, even if goalkeepers usually have an easier time than the other members of the team. Most people forget the goalkeeper is even there until someone gets too close to the goal. He mostly flies under the radar, to Gabriel’s chagrin. He tries to make himself approachable, of course, stopping for photos and autographs, especially to kids. But he’s been able to keep a life of privacy, with only his mum and cat to keep him company. Every article that mentions him does it only in a professional matter, with a few exceptions — one particular article named him one of the twenty most eligible bachelors in England a few years back. His mum has it framed.

Manchester wants to extend his contract, give him at least five more years as their goalkeeper. He never thought of not signing, but since talking with Gabriel last night… Well, he’s still young to think of retirement. And even if he _did_ retire, what would he do? Of course, he has made enough money to live the rest of his life comfortably, without having to work another day.

But Tadfield’s home, and he can’t come back.

He throws the daisy away.

“Stop lying for once in your life,” he says, like hearing the words will make him say the truth out loud.

But that’s what he is — a liar. It’s a craft he’s perfected over the years, until he’d managed to become a master liar. If they gave lying classes at university, he’d be the top professor in Oxford.

He didn’t even know how he got to the point where his life was based on lies upon lies upon lies. He used to be terrified of lying, and couldn't do it to save his life. He never joined Tadfield’s theatre community because he got nervous just thinking of having to tell something that wasn’t true.

He lied to himself when he went to Nottingham. He lay awake at night and dreamt of how life would be once he was back in Tadfield. How easy it’d be to fit in again, to fill the space he had carved out for himself in the blissful years he’d lived in the village. He was made for Tadfield, he used to tell himself, and Tadfield was made for him. He was made for quiet mornings and lazy afternoons, for days under the sun and nights next to the fire, for children’s laughter and the elders' watchful eyes.

He was not made for London. Not for the bustling and hustling and the people and cars. Not for University and RADA and a tiny department. Not for a bookshop and nights at the theatre. Not for Crowley and him fitting into the same space, building a life together. No, his life had been built already, his parents made sure he had everything set up.

Maybe if he wasn’t a coward — well, no, that’s a lot to expect from him. He may have been a truthful kid once, but he was never brave. He always hid behind his parents and Crowley, and even now he stayed blended in the background, too scared of people knowing him as anything other than Manchester’s stellar goalkeeper. Hiding behind his picture perfect image, the role model for little kids, as Gabriel liked to remind him. Always smiling and waving and keeping a clean record.

But he needs to tell _him._ It’s one of the reasons that made him step out of the car and into the town that saw him grow up. He needs closure — even if it means never being able to come back, definitely. He’s on the brink of something, and this time he’s the one about to throw himself. There’s no one but him, for the first time in his life. The decision is his to make.

It can’t be that different from the guilt that has taken residence in the pit of his stomach, that’s eating him from the inside out, that’s threatening to drown him as soon as he opens his mouth.

There’s no one to push him, he realised before coming to Tadfield — and no one to catch him.

**EIGHT YEARS AGO**

“Where are you going?”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks. He turned his head. Standing at the end of the stairs was Gabriel, his expression as fake as ever. It was amazing, really, how just one look at his face was enough to ruin his day.

“I have to make a call,” he answers, gripping the banister with too much force, “to tell the good news.”

“The call can wait, can’t it?” Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “I brought a bottle of champagne, we have to celebrate.”

Aziraphale doesn’t want to celebrate with him. “It’ll just take a couple minutes.”

Gabriel’s smile falls for a moment, but it’s back so soon that Aziraphale feels maybe he just imagined it.

“I want to have a word with you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale nods, because he really can’t do anything else. He follows Gabriel to his dad’s study — not that his dad uses it if he isn’t with Gabriel. Aziraphale doesn’t even know _where_ Gabriel’s office is, it might as well be in his own house.

Aziraphale sits, keeping his hands on his lap. They’re numb, and he’s tired. He’s always tired lately.

“I’ve been talking to your dad.”

Aziraphale knows he shouldn’t feel like he’s a kid. _He’s an adult_. But just the thought of his dad and Gabriel talking sends shivers down his spine.

“O-oh?”

“Yes, he felt that there were some things I had to… be clear on,” Gabriel sits on the desk, as close as he can get to Aziraphale, “now, I don’t want you to think I’m judging your personal life — I’m not.”

Aziraphale nods. He… _feels_ the way the conversation is heading.

“You’re an amazing goalkeeper, and I have big hopes for you — _but,_ there are certain things you need to think over before your life changes.”

“Before my life changes,” Aziraphale repeats.

“You’re Manchester’s latest addition, sunshine, you’ll be the next big star if you continue being this good at your job — the next step is England’s national team, and if my sources are correct, they have their eyes on you.”

Aziraphale feels sick. It makes him feel guilty. He loves football, he loves that he’s been given the possibility of pursuing a career in one of his hobbies… But he feels wrong. He doesn’t fit in this world.

He wants to be back in Tadfield, in the safety of The Bandstand, or his home, or the old willow tree.

“Oh, well, I’m not — I just want to play football, really, not become a celebrity.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of your control, Aziraphale.”

He’s in too deep now. He’s standing on the edge of a precipice and he’s pretty sure Gabriel is about to throw him to the stardom he doesn’t need nor want.

“I see,” Aziraphale says, “thank you for — telling me.”

Gabriel claps once, startling Aziraphale. “Good, good.”

“Was that — was that all?”

He needs to get out. He needs to call Crowley.

“I’ll give you some advice, free of charge.”

Gabriel isn’t smiling anymore.

“Do you know, Aziraphale, why there isn’t any gay players in football?”

_Oh, no._

_No no no no no no no._

“Because football has its own rules, its own world.”

Aziraphale tries to keep his body from shaking.

“I’m not saying you’re gay, of course.”

Aziraphale doesn't even know if he _is._

“But your father did make me aware of your… _close_ relationship with your best friend.”

_Please, no, don’t bring him into this —_

“And if you do have a relationship with this... _Crowley,_ I have to know — to make plans, of course, in case anyone finds out.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know where his voice comes from, but someone that sounds like him is talking.

“Crowley and I are just friends, Gabriel, nothing to worry about.”

The smile comes back to Gabriel’s face. “Perfect! Glad we’re on the same page.”

“Of course.”

Gabriel stands up, claps a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Then I guess your friend can wait while we celebrate, hm? It’s not every day that you get signed to Manchester.”

Aziraphale nods. Gabriel leaves the room.

As soon as the door closes, Aziraphale buries his face in his hands, choking on his own breath.

He felt like he just signed his own death sentence.

**SATURDAY**

Adam, the little one, is incredibly persuasive.

Without Aziraphale even beginning to understand how it happened, he somehow gets roped into playing with him and his friends.

“Have you played against a girl?” the girl, Pepper, asks.

“Oh, yes, Eve was an amazing player when we were kids.”

Pepper sticks her tongue out to one of the other children. He can’t tell which one is Wensley and which one is Brian.

“It’s unfair if you are the goalkeeper,” Adam says, “you’re a professional.”

Aziraphale agrees. “I can give you some tips.”

“I want to be the goalkeeper!” Pepper exclaims.

“Pepper’s the goalkeeper, then.”

“And you’re the captain?” Aziraphale asks.

Adam shrugs. “I’m the one that comes up with the games.”

“He’s the best at making games,” Brian, he’s sure, says, “he should be a professional game-maker.”

“That’s not a thing,” Pepper says.

“Father Anthony says we can be whatever we want.”

He still can’t recover from people calling Crowely by his first name.

“Does he?”

“Yup!” Adam nods. “Did you always want to be a football player, Mr. Fell?”

“Uhm,” Aziraphale doesn’t know if he wants to lie to children, “I didn’t, really, I wanted to study English.”

“Oh,” Adam frowns, “that sounds kind of boring.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Crow… _Father Anthony_ used to tell me the same thing.”

“Well, he’s a priest, that’s even less fun.”

“I heard you, Adam.”

Aziraphale freezes.

“Father Anthony!” Adam smiles innocently. “We’re gonna play, want to join?”

“Ask Aziraphale, I can’t kick a ball to save my life.”

The kids stare at Aziraphale. It’s true. Crowley was one of the worst football players Aziraphale had ever seen, and ever since he broke his foot — a memory Aziraphale isn’t getting anywhere near any time soon — he completely gave up in even trying to join games to accompany Aziraphale.

He doesn’t know where his voice comes from, but he manages to smile and answer.

“He’s a disgrace to football players everywhere.”

The kids laugh. Aziraphale wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

He turns. Crowley is standing there, looking at the children as if Aziraphale wasn’t a few steps away from him.

He looks older than Aziraphale imagined, all his soft edges replaced by a sharpness that wasn’t there before. His hair is cut short, nothing left of the long locks that haunted Aziraphale’s dreams for years. He’s as tall and lean as always, hidden behind an outfit of pure catholic black.

The only thing Aziraphale recognises as unchangeable are his glasses, but those have also changed their shape, modest and circular. Even with them, Aziraphale knows Crowley hasn’t spared him a glance since he stepped into the park. Not that there’s much to look at. Aziraphale has made it his life mission to be as unremarkable as possible, and hasn’t so much as changed his haircut since he last saw Crowley.

“C’mon Mr Fell! You’re on my team!” exclaims Adam.

Aziraphale turns to face Adam, who looks as happy as a boy can be. “You can just call me Aziraphale, Mr Fell makes me feel a bit old.”

“You _are_ old,” Pepper says.

“Pepper,” Crowley interjects, his voice sounding like a warning, “don’t be rude to the old man.”

The kids snicker.

“You’re just five months younger!” Aziraphale sputters.

There’s the hint of a smirk on Crowley’s face, and it takes Aziraphale’s breath away. He feels fifteen again — _falling._

**FIFTEEN YEARS AGO**

“I don’t get it.”

Aziraphale sent Crowley a questioning look, too tired to answer. He feels hot and sweaty and his shoes are muddy from the field, the only thing he managed to do before laying on the grass next to Crowley was out on the deodorant his dad bought for him — a strong, rusty smell that neither him nor Crowley liked at all. His mum would have a heart attack when she saw him come home.

“Why you like football,” Crowley explained, picking up daisies from the ground and tearing its petals out, “it doesn’t suit you.”

Crowley likes _this_. Asking questions, finding answers. In another life, maybe he’d be a scientist, or a philosopher — but since he joined Tadfield’s small theatre community, there’s nothing in his life but acting.

Aziraphale doesn’t like questions. He’s happy — well, not _happy_ , content would be the right word — to live life in their tiny corner of the world, without questioning anything but what he and Crowley were going to do next.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t have an answer. He just likes football, always has, always will. He never questioned why his dad put a ball in front of him when he was four and told him to kick it as hard as he could. He never questioned why Tadfield’s team decided his broad shoulders and strong arms were synonymous with standing on the goal and gave him the old leather gloves someone had given the club centuries ago. He just stood there and stopped ball after ball until the void in his stomach and the nagging in his head faded into the background.

There was no place for doubts in football.

“I could ask you the same,” Crowley flicks a petal and it falls on Aziraphale’s forehead, “about acting, I mean.”

Crowley stays silent, staring at the lake with a thoughtful expression. Aziraphale likes autumn afternoons. The trees make the light fall with shadows on Crowley’s face, and the contrast makes him look older. It suits him. He can almost imagine how he’d look when they grew up, when they found time for each other in between work and family. It’s nice to picture the softness of a future in which Crowley and him stay together.

“I like pretending, I think.”

“Pretending?”

“Yeah, it’s —” Crowley closes his eyes, “it’s like I’m only _me_ when I’m not _me_ , you know?” he opens his eyes, turning to look at Aziraphale, “And when I’m with you.”

**SATURDAY**

When the kids leave for lunch, Aziraphale realises he’s been playing for the last two hours. And he — _his team_ lost. Adam, pouting, demands that Aziraphale joins them later for a rematch.

He realises it’s been too long since he had fun playing.

Crowley is sitting on a bench. He disappeared a few minutes before they finished the match, and came back carrying a backpack. They stare at each other — and then Crowley pats the spot next to him.

Aziraphale gulps involuntarily, still catching his breath from running.

Crowley doesn’t look at him when he sits, instead looking for something in the backpack. Aziraphale doesn’t know if he feels relieved or disappointed to see that it’s black and brand new.

“Can I tempt you to a spot of lunch?” asks Crowley, getting a paper bag out of the backpack, “You must be starving from playing with kids.”

Aziraphale wants to talk. He wants — _needs_ to tell Crowley what he feels, what he wanted to say the day before. But even after all these years, he knows Crowley. And he knows the bait is his way of asking Aziraphale to forget what happened.

“Do I really look that old?” Aziraphale asks, taking the bag, surprising himself with how steady his voice sounds, “I do play against men younger than me.”

Crowley takes another bag out of the backpack, shrugging. “You have wrinkles,” Aziraphale frowns, Crowley points at his face, “now you’re just proving my point.”

Aziraphale stops frowning, instead pursing his lips. “I’m not proving anything.”

“Sure, but you should see if there’s a skincare company willing to sponsor you.”

“Ha ha.”

Aziraphale opens the bag. He pulls out a bottle of orange juice, a chocolate cupcake, and two sandwiches. His chest feels like someone’s sitting on it all of a sudden.

“Is it…?”

Crowley nods, shrugging once again. “Yup,” he’s staring at his own sandwich, “I hope you still like it.”

“It’s been too long since I — you know, I’m supposed to be on a very strict diet.”

“You’re on vacation.”

“Well…”

“Just eat the damn sandwich, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale would laugh if he didn’t feel touched by Crowley’s thoughtfulness, even after all these years.

Once upon a time, when they went to eat lunch together at Tracy’s, she used to make the best sandwiches ever. They weren’t on the menu, but she made them just for Aziraphale and Crowley. A butter, cheese and ham sandwich for Aziraphale, and a cheese and tomato one for Crowley. Cold in the summer, grilled in the winter. It was one of the things Aziraphale missed the most about Tadfield.

Crowley squirms in his seat, and Aziraphale realises he’s probably spent too much time looking at him. “It’s not fancy like the stuff you eat now, but…”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley shrugs again. “Let’s just say Grace, alright?” Aziraphale nods, and Crowley closes his eyes.

It’s an amazing sight — the way his face melts. The tension that Aziraphale has come to associate with Crowley disappears as he relaxes into the role he’s been given. Aziraphale saw it before, in every character he portrayed. Crowley disappears into them, and if it weren’t for the deep knowledge Aziraphale has of his face — even if it does sound a bit weird. But Aziraphale grew up cataloguing every expression, every raise of an eyebrow and smile and twitch — everything that reminds him that Crowley is there, underneath everything.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

“Amen,” Aziraphale echoes, and follows him in the sign of the cross.

Aziraphale waits until the character falls and stares ahead, taking a bite of the sandwich. He closes his eyes and groans.

“Even better than I remember.”

“Keep it in your pants.”

Aziraphale sends him a disapproving look. “Really? What would the Lord say if they heard you talking like that?”

Even with his glasses on, Aziraphale can see the way his eyes roll back. “My relationship with the Lord has nothing to do with sandwiches.”

“Maybe it should, these are Heaven incarnate.”

Aziraphale had almost forgotten how easy this was — talking to Crowley. Half of him wants to drag the conversation back to them, but the other half doesn’t want to break the peace agreement he seemed to have signed when he accepted Crowley’s offer. He decides to stay silent, and Crowley seems to have come to the same conclusion.

They eat in silence, close enough to touch — not that Aziraphale would ever take that step, not when just raising his hand had been enough to send Crowley running. He doesn’t want to push Crowley away so soon, not when their relationship is one step away from coming back.

“How’s your mum?” Aziraphale asks, his gaze fixed on his second sandwich.

“Back to Scotland for the summer — that’s her excuse, at least, but she’s been spending a lot of time there lately.”

“Well, it is her hometown.”

“Depressing is what it is.”

Crowley looks at his sandwich, disappointed in the same way he did when they were younger. Aziraphale picks the crust off his and passes it to him. It was almost an involuntary reaction. Crowley’s favourite part of the sandwich was the crust, and Aziraphale didn’t really care about it, so he’d always given it to Crowley after he finished it.

“Thanks,” Crowley mumbles, “how’s your mum?”

“The same as always.”

“Overbearing?”

Aziraphale groaned. “You’d think I’m still ten.”

“She probably does,” Crowley smiles, “remember that time she grounded you because she found —”

“Please don’t say it.”

“— condoms.”

Aziraphale groaned even louder. “She probably still doesn’t believe me.”

Crowley snorts. “Hastur may have the brain of a frog, but that was a funny joke.”

“It wasn’t funny at all! She thought they were mine!”

“Your mum clearly didn’t know you at all — we didn’t have time to get laid.”

“You say it like anybody would even look at us and consider us as a potential partner.”

“Hey, don’t be rude! I had my fair share of admirers,” Crowley puts a hand on his chest, pretending to be offended.

“That old lady from the train station?”

“Mrs Campbell was the sweetest woman ever, don’t besmirch her name like that.”

Aziraphale picks up the cupcake. “A theatre nerd and a footballer nerd, that’s what we were.”

“Not anymore,” Crowley finishes his sandwich, “now we’re the priest and the footballer.”

“Now you’re really _not_ ‘getting laid’.”

Crowley huffs. “‘s overrated.”

“Sex?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale feels himself blush — which is dumb, he’s an _adult,_ he can have these types of conversation, “you’re right.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

They stay silent.

This time, Crowley’s the one to break it.

“Did we just come out to each other?”

“Yes, I think we did.”

“Huh,” Crowley frowns, “that was less dramatic than I thought.”

“I mean, I’ve never been the straightest kid —“

“Should’ve known it when I turned seventeen and realised we never even talked about sex.”

“That’s what average teenagers do, yes.”

Crowley makes a face. “Good thing we weren’t average.”

“Can you imagine?”

“ _Crowley, let’s watch porn._ ”

“I don’t sound like that!”

“You do!”

Crowley laughs. Aziraphale tries to hold onto his frown.

“It’s really not funny!”

Crowley looks like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard all year. Aziraphale ends up chuckling along.

“Imitation was never your forte.”

Crowley passes Aziraphale the rest of his cupcake. “Good thing I have other qualities.”

“And I have yet to see them.”

Crowley takes the cupcake back. “You can’t say rude things to me anymore, I’m the law.”

“Oh, when did you become the Queen?”

Crowley sends him a dirty look. “You think you’re funny — you’re not.”

“I have it on good authority that I am, in fact, funny.”

“That person’s a liar, and Jesus hates liars”

“Is that your sermon?”

“Yup,” Crowley gives the cupcake to Aziraphale once again, “Jesus hates liars, be gay, eat the rich.”

“I’m clutching my metaphorical pearls and gasping.”

Crowley snorts. “Look at us, the priest and the footballer, coming out and talking about being gay.”

Aziraphale can’t help the chuckle that follows Crowley’s words. “The two pillars of heterosexuality, destroyed by two guys from a village in the middle of nowhere.”

“Jesus would be proud.”

“I hope so, I feel like I just bought a ticket to Hell.”

“Please you’d never go to Hell, you’re an angel.”

It’s like flicking a switch. Their banter ends as soon as the word is laid between them. Aziraphale feels the pressure appear again, wrapping them both and sucking the air out. Crowley looks away, his mouth set in a firm line. Aziraphale lets out a shaky breath.

It should feel weird. Years ago, anyone would think Aziraphale’s name was _angel,_ as Crowley would very rarely call him that. It used to feel like an extension of their relationship — until the fight. Until Aziraphale realised that it was the foundation of it, their friendship built around that word and how it changed Aziraphale’s view of what love was.

Crowley stands, swinging the bag over his shoulder. He doesn’t look back, and Aziraphale is glad.

“Let’s take a walk.”

**TEN YEARS AGO**

“Stop worrying.”

Aziraphale looks over his shoulder. Crowley is leaning on the door, crossing his arms.

“I’m not.”

Aziraphale turns his back on Crowley, focusing on the arduous job of cleaning the dishes. He hates it, but Crowley had cooked for him, so it was only fair. _Compromise,_ Crowley joked, _it’s the perfect practice for when we move in together._

“We went over it a million times already, and we have all of tomorrow to continue practicing.”

“I know, it’s just —”

Aziraphale sighs. Crowley closes the distance between them, turning the tap off.

“Hey, angel, it’s alright.”

His hands are shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no need to say sorry, okay? I get it.” Crowley takes a tablecloth and throws it.

It lands on Aziraphale’s head, obscuring his view. “Thank you.”

“C’mon, turn on the kettle, I’ll play you something.”

“Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, with —”

“A drop of milk and two sugars, got it.”

“Thanks, angel.”

The footsteps disappear back to the living room. Aziraphale dries his hands and turns the kettle on as the first notes of a song linger on the silence, a company to the sound of the storm going on outside.

“Scriabin?” he asks, only to hear Crowley’s snort.

“Not even close!”

Aziraphale smiles, busying himself while Crowley continues playing the piano in the living room.

“The Velvet Underworld?”

“You’re a disgrace to music, angel.”

And he was, truly. His mum was a piano teacher, and she’d been cursed with a son that had no musical abilities whatsoever. It all sounded the same to him, as much as he tried to follow Julie Andrews’ angelic voice as she taught the Von Trapp children the magic of music.

It was the absolute opposite to Crowley, who saw Freddie Mercury play the piano when they were seven and decided that he had to learn how to play like him — and he was a natural. Every Thursday, Aziraphale sat in the living room to do his homework, while his mum and Crowley sat elbow to elbow and played the piano. His mum loved the classics and Frank Sinatra, so for a few years that was the only music Aziraphale heard. But once Crowley felt confident enough, the living room was filled with Queen, David Bowie, Abba and Aziraphale’s favourite, The Beatles.

Even as they grew up and started having less and less time, Crowley and his mum were a constant presence. Coming home from football practice and finding them perched over his family’s old piano, sometimes playing together, was a comfort Aziraphale would miss once he was in Nottingham.

By the time the coffee and the tea were ready, Crowley had already jumped onto the next song, his tongue peeking out in concentration. Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“What song was it?”

Crowley stopped playing, sending Aziraphale a smile.

“ _A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square,_ ” he took the coffee from Aziraphale’s hands.

“Oh! The one that goes —”

“Please don’t —”

“ _That certain night, the night we met…_ ”

“Nowhere near close to the tone —”

“ _There was magic abroad in the air…_ ”

“Vera Lynn doesn’t deserve this —”

“ _There were angels dining at the Ritz…_ ”

Crowley burst into laughter, almost spilling the coffee. Aziraphale rolled his eyes, even if he had been deliberately singing off-key to make Crowley laugh.

Aziraphale can picture it. A tiny department, late nights with Crowley messing around on a piano, trying to get a laugh out of him if only to see the way his face lights up or the crinkles around his eyes. It feels close, like something he can reach out and grab for himself. It’s not a fantasy. He’s a step away from building a life doing something he likes with the person he loves most in the world.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

Crowley’s voice drags him out of his sudden retreat. He isn’t sure how he was looking at his friend, but can imagine the fondness written on him, clear as day.

“Like what?”

There’s something unreadable in Crowley’s face. He looks older and younger at the same time, hopefulness and doubt heavy in his eyes. He stands up, the coffee forgotten, and takes a shaky breath.

“Angel, we should talk.”

He’s only one step away.

Thunder crashes outside.

“Yes,” his voice shakes, “we should.”

Crowley steps towards him.

“You know, don’t you?” Aziraphale says, feeling lightheaded.

“We both know,” Crowley agrees, “it’s been going on for years.”

Crowley takes his hand.

Aziraphale looks up. “Perhaps we should wait.”

“Wait?”

Aziraphale nods.

“I don’t — why wait? We’re going to live together, go out together — is it because of your dad? Football?”

“You know it won’t be easy.”

“I know! But nothing is ever easy! That’s just life.” Crowley lifts his other hand, cupping Aziraphale’s cheek. He closes his eyes, melting onto the touch. “And it’ll change, I know it will.”

Aziraphale has never seen a reason to not trust Crowley — and he knows history. Things always change, and most of the time they do it for the better.

“Perhaps one day we can… go for a picnic,” Aziraphale smiles, “dine at the Ritz.”

Crowley nods. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

And he knows Crowley will.

But maybe it’s not the time to take the step.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

Thunder crashes again as Crowley’s face falls.

Someone starts knocking at the door and Aziraphale doesn’t have time to explain.

They both turn towards the front door, Crowley’s hands dropping.

“Were you waiting for someone?” he asks.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Not that I know of, and besides — it’s almost ten.”

Crowley steps back as Aziraphale goes to open it. He feels Crowley’s eyes burning, and the silence feels much too loud, unspoken words clogging the air. He just wants to send whoever’s knocking home so he can talk to Crowley, explain what he means, say the words that he’s been choking on for years.

He opens the door.

“Eve?”

She’s standing there, absolutely soaked, her wide eyes puffed and red. Eve throws herself towards him, and he has no time to wrap his arms around her before she’s crying on his shoulder. He feels more than sees Crowley hurry over to them, but his whole world has shifted towards his friend and the desperate way she’s clinging onto him, like Aziraphale was her lifeline.

“Aziraphale,” she says in between sobs, her voice shaking in time with her body, “I don’t know what to do.”

**SATURDAY**

They end up in his house — or, more accurately, the place where it once stood.

The grass is growing, some flowers peeking from between the once-burned ground. Aziraphale feels like he’s choking.

“A library.”

He turns to look at Crowley, startled. “What?”

Crowley stands, shoulders tense, a few steps behind him. “Told the town council that a library would be nice.”

“You did?”

“Of course,” Crowley walks towards him, “they still don’t know what to put here, and there’s enough parks already.”

“A library.”

The fire that destroyed his house had also taken with it the books Aziraphale had collected over his short life, stashed away until he came back. None of them survived, the whole house was burned down, taking everything they had.

“It seemed fitting, but the council liked the idea of a Tesco more.”

Aziraphale looks horrified. Crowley barks out a laugh.

“Just kidding! Oh, the look on your face!”

Aziraphale tries not to pout. He fails. “It’s not funny!”

“Please, as if the people of Tadfield would let Tesco set a foot on this town!”

“Don’t act innocent, Eve’s told me all about the changes you’ve made to Tadfield.”

Crowley shrugs. “‘s not much.”

“I remember how it was before,” Aziraphale presses, “Father Damien, as good as he was, was set on his ways — he didn’t even get out of the church most days.”

“That’s where a priest is supposed to be.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. He knows by the tone of Crowley’s voice that he’s about to slip into a character, to deflect whatever Aziraphale’s about to say.

“No, it isn’t, and you knew that,” Crowley, despite himself, nods, “as soon as you got here, you went out and tried to bring God out of the Church, changed the sermons —”

“I get your point.”

“Do you?”

“Tadfield’s different, and it’s my fault — should I say sorry?”

Aziraphale blinks in confusion. “Sorry for what?”

“C’mon, everybody knows you hate change, you’ve always liked — routine, or something like that.”

He does. But it’s more than that. Tadfield’s the same in its core: a small village where everyone knows each other, a community that prides itself on being silent and calm, the children’s laughter and the church bells the only disturbances to be found. Talking to Tracy, talking to Eve, walking the streets, he’s seen what Crowley has given Tadfield: a purpose.

And the purpose is the same he’s come to associate with him. Be better. There’s always room for change, and in the same way he managed to change Aziraphale in a way that he felt comfortable, he did it with Tadfield. Small gestures go a long way, and it’s in the service to the community that Crowley found the answers he’d always been looking for.

Aziraphale should’ve been here before to see it, to help Crowley shape Tadfield into the home he always deserved.

“That’s true,” Aziraphale steps closer to Crowley, “but you managed to change Tadfield into what I always wanted the town to be — Eve said she would’ve never been able to come back to the village without your help.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

“Of course it’s not perfect, but a work in progress is better than just being stuck.”

And Aziraphale feels stuck. He’s grown up and moved out and travelled the world and worked as hard as he could but his mind always goes back to Tadfield, to The Bandstand and the fight that broke the only relationship he thought would last forever.

He needs to tell Crowley, even if it means burying their friendship definitely. Maybe getting it out of his system would let him watch the second season of Fleabag without feeling like he was about to burst into tears because of the priest and Fleabag’s relationship. Let him move on, forget Tadfield.

“You helped shape Tadfield into somewhere we can fit in.”

Crowley doesn’t look at him, his eyes fixed on the grass. “I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“How could I not?” Aziraphale wants to reach out, but his hands stay fixed on his back. “Eve, Adam, Tracy — _you._ You’re all here.”

“I have nowhere else to go.”

“That’s not true,” he stands next to Crowley, and he turns to look at him, “you always have plans, you always knew you wanted —”

“Aziraphale.”

“Crowley, I know —”

Crowley frowns. “We haven’t talked in years, Aziraphale, what do you know?”

“I know you,” Aziraphale, to his surprise, doesn’t shake, “as much as you’ve changed, you’re still Crowley.”

Crowley stays silent. Even with his glasses on his face is like an open book, and Aziraphale knows each character, has committed them all to memory. He’s a collector, and even his most prized books can’t compare to the feeling of reading Crowley and just simply _knowing_ him.

“Do you still want London?” he asks, because _London_ is easier to say than _us._

Crowley’s face hardens, and Aziraphale knows he understood the underlying message.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Still — we wanted it since we were kids.”

Even if Aziraphale was difficult, the hope was always there. The dream of a future together, wherever that may be.

“I’m not a kid anymore, I grew up,” Crowley says through gritted teeth, his hands shaking, “isn’t that what you wanted?”

 _Not like this,_ Aziraphale thinks, _never like this._

Aziraphale turns his head, trying to escape the sudden burning in Crowley’s eyes. “Growing up doesn’t mean just — giving up.”

Crowley laughs. A laugh that comes from deep within his throat. It almost sounds cruel — nothing at all like the Crowley Aziraphale knows.

“Oh, that’s a lot coming from you, isn’t it?”

“I don’t —“

“We’re both adults, we both know that you gave up on _London_ years ago.”

“Why are you being so difficult?” Aziraphale faces Crowley. “I just want to talk.”

“Well, we’ve talked.”

Crowley turns his back on him. Aziraphale can’t let this go. He grabs his wrist, stopping him before he can leave.

He’s drowning. Aziraphale’s stuck and he’s drowning and Crowley’s his lifeline.

“Aren’t you a priest?” and the weight of his words are pulling him down, “I thought you were supposed to give forgiveness.”

He saw the tension leaving his shoulders. When Crowley turned to watch him, his face had already softened. It took his breath away — how much he looked like the Crowley he almost kissed under the willow tree, a deep yearning that shook Aziraphale to his core, a yearning that he knows is reflected on his face.

“We both know I have already forgiven you, angel,” he says, and Aziraphale feels like he’s drowning in that word, “you don’t want my forgiveness, you’re looking for _yours._ ”

Aziraphale lets go of Crowley’s wrist. Crowley looks like he’s going to say something else.

He doesn’t.

Crowley turns around and leaves.

The guilt bubbling inside of him chokes Aziraphale before he can call out for Crowley to come back. He couldn’t find it in himself to say the words he should’ve said next to the piano a little over ten years ago.

Aziraphale stands in the place that once was his home, his hands shaking, reaching out for somebody that has already turned the corner without looking back.

He’s dragged Crowley into the deep end with him. They have a wedding to get through, and Eve won’t let him escape the sacred task of being her child’s godfather with Crowley. He’s been tied to him and instead of letting Crowley swim in peace, he clung to him like he always has, desperately holding on to the hope that he’s not alone in this, even when being alone would be the selfless thing to do.

It was easy for a moment to forget that Crowley knows him in the same way he knows him, that their life had been threaded together by none other than themselves, stitched and parched and torn. It’s not something ineffable, some Great Plan he was thrust into without having a say in it.

Crowley chose Aziraphale. Aziraphale chose Crowley. They chose each other over and over again. Aziraphale fell in love with Crowley because he chose to see the good in him even when Crowley was busy trying to find the good in others, to hide in character after character in hopes of finding himself.

It wasn’t the falling that hurt him, it was the parachute he had thrown himself with. The distance he willingly put that had pushed Crowley away, into a character he fit like a glove, someone that changed things for others while hiding himself from the only person that understood what went on behind the façade.

And now he ruined their relationship. He ruined them. Again.

“Fuck.”

**Author's Note:**

> it's been one month since staged premiered, so it's been one month of writing and rewriting this fic. i couldn't have done it without the support from my twitter friends, and this was written for them... even if they're gonna kill me for the angst! but there's a happy ending coming, even if they have to work for it ;) if you don't already, catch me on twitter @lilibetpride for constant crying over good omens! thank you for reading <3


End file.
